


Affraid of the Dark

by NightmaresAreDreams2 (HushNowDarling)



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Implied Childhood Sexual Abuse, Murder, Physical Abuse, Sexual Abuse, Trigger Warnings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-26
Updated: 2017-04-26
Packaged: 2018-10-24 05:53:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,430
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10735482
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HushNowDarling/pseuds/NightmaresAreDreams2
Summary: Trigger warning: Mentions of childhood abuse. Physical and sexual.





	Affraid of the Dark

**Author's Note:**

> Trigger warning: Mentions of childhood abuse. Physical and sexual.   
> //Please don't hate me for this. There's only one part. Probably won't be a second.//

He always hated the dark. Maybe it was because the world felt infinite when consumed in the black. Maybe it was because he felt small. Maybe is was because he couldn't see. Or maybe it was because bad things always happen in the dark. Things he never told anyone about. Things like what his father did to him. Did to him every night since he was young. Barely even old enough to know right from wrong. But he knew it was wrong. The things that happened in the dark. He knew they were wrong and he hated them but what could he do? He was a child and his father was a well-known and well-respected adult. They'd think he was lying. That he was just seeking attention or that he was just upset he'd gotten in trouble. Then he'd get beaten. If he told, or tried to tell, then his father would hit him. He'd hit him hard. Never broken bones or anything that needed a doctor's attention, but there would be bruises, cuts, and belt-shaped whelps galore. He hated the bad things his father did. He hated them all. He'd stay quiet. He'd obey because the bad things, though they often hurt and left him huddled in a ball, crying until he fell asleep, they hurt so much less than the beatings did. At least they hurt less on the outside. He hated the bad things. He hated them almost as much as he hated himself.

He squeezed his eyes closed tight upon hearing the heavy steps of his father. He curled tighter into a ball and pulled the thin blankets closer to his shivering body. There was no rhythm to the steps. This meant his father was drunk, and a drunk father meant that the bad things were going to happen. A drunk father had no remorse. He had no cares of the damages that were done to the young boy. No worries about the deep bruises on his son's tanned flesh. No worries about blue eyes filled with tears and terror. No worries about the whimpering pleas that fell from the child's chapped lips in ragged breaths. 

He flinched at the low moan on the faded blue door's rusted hinges and the man he feared most pushed it open. Slowly, ever so slowly, dim light filled the child's room, and slowly, ever so slowly, the dim light faded into black again. The steps, still without rhythm, inched closer to the bed. This almost nightly occurrence meant that, even under the influence of alcohol, the man knew his way around the boy's room. The bed's springs creaked as the man sat on its edge. A large hand found it's way to the boy's shoulders, rubbing gentle circles against the blanket's threadbare materials.

He grasped the tattered hem of the fabric and slowly pulled it back. The child didn't resist it, he didn't cling to his covers, didn't clutch it tighter. He just let it go. Fighting back meant pain. So he just pretended to be asleep. He pretended to be unconscious but tears still readied themselves in his eyes.

The man knew the boy wasn't asleep. After so many years of this routine, he knew, but continued on with his own desires. His hand slid down the boy's arm. Rough palms grazing the soft flesh of his child. The boy was dressed in a simple white tee that was three sizes too big and washed out slate blue boxers. It was the most he was permitted to wear to bed, and the boy never wore any less.

The man's hand slid back up the boy's arm, under the cloth of the short sleeve, and back down again. Further down now, further until calloused fingers met toned thighs. Back up again, back up and under the fabric of his boxer shorts. Soft, drunken mumbles began to escape the man's mouth.

"So pretty." The man slurred and the boy's breath hitched. The bad things were about to start. "Just like you mama. So pretty." He leaned forward now, until lips met the boy's exposed ear, the alcohol's smell heavy on his hot breath. The boy trembled but the man didn't stop. He trailed sloppy kisses from the boy's ear, to his neck, to the bit shoulder exposed by the loose neckline of the t-shirt.

"Good boy." The man said between each kiss. "Good boy." Tears spilled from the boy's closed eyes. "Good boy." Over and over and over the man cooed and the boy hated it. Don't say that. Stop saying that! The boy's lip trembled, oh how he hated those words. How he hated those slurred compliments.

His father's hand caressed the tense muscles of his ass. Groping them, spreading them, moving closer to the puckered hole.

The boy's breathing became heavy. He knew what came next. He slid his hand under his pillow and prayed his father didn't notice. He gasped, eyes shooting open, body freezing, as his father forced a finger inside him. After the stinging faded, the boy slid his hand further under the stuffed cloth supporting his head. His father all the while working his finger in and out of the boy, not noticing the shifting in the boy's posture. When he did finally notice, it was too late.

The boy swung his arm from under his pillow, heavy metal wrench clenched tight in sweaty palms met with the wrinkled flesh of his father's face. The boy winced, a slight pain ebbing through him as his father's fingers pulled roughly from the sensitive flesh that held them.

The man stumbled back, hands clutching the wounded, and most likely broken, cheek. Heavy curses filled the darkness of the room. The boy heard his father fumble at his belt. He swung again, only harder this time. A sickening crack and terrified shout sounded. He swung again. Another crack, but no scream. The boy was sobbing, body racking with each heavy breath. He swung a fourth time, and then a fifth, and a sixth. He swung until his arms hurt. Until his body felt limp and he dropped to his bloodied floor.

The wrench made a soft 'clang' as it connected with the wooden floor. When had the tears stopped? His eyes burned as the saline returned in abundance, and he smiled. It was over. His reason to fear the dark was gone now. He was gone.

The boy's breath hitched and the tears began flowing harder and his nose started running. The man was dead. He was gone. Forever. His father was gone. He killed his father, his tormentor. The boy clenched the red stained fabric of his shirt and began screaming. It was over, finally over. So why did his chest hurt? Did he regret finally freeing himself?

The boy stood up, stumbling over his father's body, and started running. He ran out of his house, coated in the blood of the man that assaulted him since he was small. He ran, he didn't know where he was going but he kept running. Into the woods behind his house. Body exposed to the cold, bare feet stepping on pointed twigs and sharp rocks.

He ran until he saw the off yellow bulb of his friend's house. Panicked fists met with the thick wood of the stained door. He kept knocking with heavy hits, even after the door had pulled open and his fists met with a fleshy chest. He was sobbing too hard to notice, too hard to hear the person calling his name.

"Calm down! It's okay now!" The person didn't ask about the blood, he didn't ask about why the boy was standing there in his underwear, he just pulled the boy into a tight hug. Despite the tanned boy being slightly taller, he was pulled into the other chest. He quickly wrapped his arms around the paler boy's torso and buried his face into his the crook of his neck. He continued sobbing.

"I did it, Keith," He choked out. "I killed him!" He was shaking so hard and his voice wavered. "I killed my dad!"

His eyes shot open at the sound of the from door slamming shut. His father's drunken voice echoing in the empty halls, heavy steps fell without rhythm. The door moaned as it opened and the dim light slowly spilled into the room and just like that it was gone again and the darkness consumed the shadows. The boy slid his hand under his pillow, this time would be different. He wouldn't regret it. He knew he wouldn't.


End file.
